December Calendar 2013
by I'm Nova
Summary: Response to Hades Lord Of The Dead's challenge! One month's goodness is ahead! To quote a different Doctor...Allons-y!
1. Conversing with Mary

_A.N. And so we start this year too! Yay! Today's prompt from Book girl fan: Holmes conversing with Miss Mary Morstan. I am a fervent Johnlocker (it might come out sometimes, be warned), but I try to be fair towards her. Btw, i won't disclaim because I find it unbearably tedious and think Sherlock is public domain now, if I'm wrong correct me please. Today I'm in a Hiatus mood, so..._

Since leaving my Watson behind at that accursed waterfall, there hasn't been a day when I didn't think of him. I have to admit his lady wife hasn't crossed my mind as often, and when she did, it was usually an afterthought, which is discourteous towards that fine woman. Today instead, inexplicably, a memory came unbidden and all too vivid to the forefront of my mind...

She was still Miss Morstan, though already my friend's fiancée, when she came to Baker Street one morning.

"Watson is still at work," I said.

"So I hoped," she replied, making me arch an eyebrow in surprise, "since I need to talk with you, Mr. Holmes, and while it does concern John, his absence might make the conversation less awkward."

"Speak then," I prompted.

"We need to establish some ground rules for after the wedding," she stated boldly. I internally grimaced. She wasn't even married yet and it had already come to _that_. Couldn't she give me a rest until the actual ceremony at least before laying her claim?

"We don't need to," I countered coldly. "After your marriage I won't call upon Watson anymore. It will be his choice if and when to contact me. I trust it will be enough."

"That's entirely unacceptable," she declared, frowning. Good God, what more did she want?

"You can't punish John because he's marrying me, Mr. Holmes. I thought you were _reasonable_."

"What are your _reasonable_ rules, then?" I queried, forcibly keeping the bitterness out of my voice. Perhaps I should have remembered my own advice and not assumed to know what she, as any wife, would want. Mary had proved herself better than the average woman until now, after all.

"I'm going to be a doctor's wife, Mr. Holmes, having him called out at all times for emergencies is something I'm expecting. And I realize that for John you have crossed the line between friend and family," she explained calmly. "I have three requests of you that I'm hoping you won't deny. First, don't sulk, pout, resent John for his choice or try to somehow punish him like you were clearly planning to do. Drop by our home sometimes, even without warning, I won't care. Or better said, I'll be happy. Because John will be happy, if you don't want to credit me with honestly liking your company, which I do," she assured.

"I suppose that will be doable," I agreed, utterly happy but sounding doubtful. If I were a lesser man, I would have blushed at her words. I'm not a child, and I most assuredly don't pout. Still, she was offering more than I had hoped for, so I didn't protest.

"Accordingly to your engagements, of course. Which brings us to the cases," Mary added.

I braced myself for her next words. She had started by being surprisingly kind, but surely cases were out of question?

"I'm not asking you to keep John out of them. He enjoys them too much to forgive either of us if we tried. I'm not even asking you to only bring him along in the less dangerous ones, because that would be both highly illogical and insulting to him. But I love him, Mr. Holmes, and I don't want to lose him. So I _will _ask you not to be reckless. Unless your criminal is on a killing spree, if there is a slower but safer way to trap him or her, I'm asking you to opt for it. Take him along, but bring him back."

Her voice was strong and serious, and I simply had to reply, "You don't have to ask ask for it, Miss Morstan. I can't promise that I'll always return Watson in the condition I borrowed him, but I can assure you that I absolutely won't allow him to die on a case, and not because of your prompting."

"As long as you won't be the one hurting him, I can't ask for anything better," she quipped, with a smile that said how she didn't really believe me capable of such. That smile stopped the very sharp reply such an insinuation would have otherwise deserved, allowing her to conclude. "Third, please do take care of yourself Mr. Holmes. You have two people now who care for your wellbeing. I'd like to see you, and I don't mind you stealing John for cases, but I'd really enjoy if your interactions with him that required his professional intervention were kept to a minimum. I know he's your doctor. I know you spend yourself too freely on account of strangers like I once was. I know he's happy to be able to help you get better. But I know, too, that he cares about you, so that when you're unwell, it pains him. So be mindful of your health when he isn't around to do it, please. Don't hurt him by hurting yourself heedlessly, Mr. Holmes. He doesn't deserve it. And I won't forgive you if you do."

She was soft spoken but fierce, and impossible to deny. And she kept surprising me, without it being imputable to the sheer irrationality of her sex.

...I got myself into a real trouble this time, hadn't I? If she threatened not to forgive my reflexively hurting Watson by getting hurt, hurting him massively by pretending to be dead would surely be deemed unforgivable. And if she hated me she could surely sway Watson. What was I supposed to do once I was finally allowed home?

_P.S. It looks like there will be a weird difference in characters' type but it's not of my doing. Sorry_ about it.


	2. Tick tock

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Alosha135: Tick, Tock. Again, it's kind of angsty/sad. I'm sorry. It must be the everlasting rain._

I've been often compared to an automaton, usually with disparaging intent. I'm not, obviously. I simply find one's sleeve the least apt place conceivable for such a fragile thing as one's heart. Others' inability to properly guard it should really inspire more bewilderment than my attitude. Sometimes, though, the chimerical prospect of functioning – because it wouldn't be possible to define it living – as a mechanical construct looks wonderfully appealing.

Like today. We had another shave entirely too close for anything vaguely resembling comfort. To be brutally honest, I've been rarely as terrified. To be unable to feel anything – as a good automaton should – would offer an undeniable perk in such situations. Panic has the most inconvenient side effect of blinding people. Today ended well by sheer luck; without feelings I would be able to work better. To better protect what must absolutely be kept safe.

I'm sure it wouldn't be an unpleasant existence. Maybe not even altogether so different. Watson would wind me every night, as he does his clock. Perhaps leave us side by side until we're needed. A mechanical heart would tick tock inside me, always regular, working quietly without ever causing me undue pain. I would work still; perhaps more, surely improving my results, since I would be ever unclouded.

Then again, I would follow his clock's fate too. If anything happened to Watson, either for natural causes or – God forbid – for some failing of mine (even the best clock will lose a minute or two sometimes, and in our lives such a span often means life or death), I would find myself bequeathed to someone. Or sold off, maybe.

Being a machine isn't so tempting, after all. It must be unbearably boring anyway.


	3. Trunk

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Hades Lord of the Dead: Must involve a trunk. I fought with it a long time, then decided to be evil. Not only because of the plot (I owe Poirot for the idea I played with). I'm starting a case I have no plan to write an end for. At least not this year. Then...who knows. _

We each have our heroes. Andrew's was Jack. Jack the Ripper, obviously. Of course, the late Professor had been worthy of praise too, but he was more of a scientist. Andrew felt more akin to an artist, and Jack did have a knack for poetry, in his unrefined but powerful kind of way. There was an obstacle, though, to Andrew's self-realization, chopping all his inspiration to the root. That thrice-damned detective. Even Jack had stopped eventually. Someone whispered that he had been unofficially stopped, but Andrew liked to think that Jack had simply relocated to climates less stifling for his art, putting a few miles between himself and pesky consultants.

Andy refused to, though. He has been studying his enemy and his methods thanks to the Doctor's accounts. And now, now he's ready. Ready to follow Jack's footsteps. To start his own game. His first victim lay dead before him. He had taken the body from the scene of the crime and stripped it. Now he was ready to stuff her in a trunk. An old trunk that he had 'borrowed' from someone else. Then, he gently and carefully enclosed in it a note with his challenge. Written with the typewriter of a neighbour (without the man's knowing) that, being brand new, had no traceable defects and on a cheap sheet of paper. After this, he will don a simple disguise and ask someone to deliver the trunk to Scotland Yard. Let them bring in Holmes if they want. If the man manages to trace it back to him, Andrew is ready to bow to his genius before being hanged.


	4. Drunk Watson

_A.N. First of all, thank you very much to our precious guest James Birdsong for his review. Today's prompt comes from Spockologist: Watson has a little too much to drink at a party. I'll get around to write a proper fluffy one...eventually...I hope. Today is not that day. Sorry for the lateness too. This comes after The Devil's Foot, so, according to Wikipedia, after 1897. _

Watson went to a Christmas party yesterday night, organized at his club. We are still far from the actual day, but apparently all of December is fair game when people are so very replete of the seasonal cheer. Against his wont, when he came back he stumbled in heavily and his whole demeanour indicated that he was more drunk than tipsy.

Upon laying eyes on me, sitting quietly in my armchair, he slurred, "You're an absolut'ly _awful_ flatmate." Which was fairly undeserved at the time, since I hadn't done anything – but perhaps smoking quite a lot, but that was hardly of importance.

"You said flatmates should know the worst back then and _lied_," he accused. I did nothing of the sort. If anything, I omitted.

"You didn't talk about explosions. Or weird experiments. Or dragging me places whenever without givin' into basic human needs. Or _poisoning_."

I couldn't exactly deny all that. Rather, he kindly overlooked my worst sins against him. "But it's not really so bad, is it, Watson?" I queried, hopeful.

"You. Are. Awful," he insisted. "Always taking advantage of me."

I wanted to tell myself that Watson was drunk and what he said didn't count, but the ancient Romans were right. In vino veritas. Or, in a translation very much not word-for-word but true to the sense, drunk people don't lie. The doctor might be drunk, but I was starting to feel nauseous. If this was how he felt about me... "I'll unburden you. I'll just...go, and you'll be free to find another flatmate soon," I promised. I could have sworn to amend myself, but Watson had already accused me of lying. All these censurable behaviours were caused by nothing else but my damned impulsivity. I had been scolded for it since I was born and there was little chance that I would be getting rid of it now. Over forty years old I was too set in my ways.

That statement surprisingly – very much so – made Watson wail, "Nooo," and cling to me with considerable strength. "You. Are. Awful," he repeated loudly, leaving me all the more confused about his behaviour's reasons. "But it _hurts_ when you aren't around. Don't you _dare_ go away. I'm not letting you."

My friend is right. I'm really awful. Because the sharp stab of guilt at his words was totally smothered by the egoistic, overwhelming relief they brought on. I didn't have to leave Watson. Not again. "Whatever you say, dear chap," I hurried to assure. "Whatever you want." The words were barely out that I had a lap full of a sleeping Watson. Not an annoyance. Carrying him to my bed – I would rather not attempt the stairs with such a load – was easily done, after all. If I was lucky, he wouldn't remember this conversation tomorrow.

_P.S. Ok, I didn't exactly follow the prompt, but tipsy!Watson would have made it really hard for my imagination to keep it T. By the way, between KnightFury and I we had Watson drunk twice in four days. He's going to end like his brother by the end of the month if the trend doesn't stop. J _


	5. Mrs Hudson's trouble

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Alosha135 again: Mrs. Watson has trouble while Dr. Watson is away. You'd laugh at my doubts over what exactly can be defined as trouble. I should really know English better by now. Anyway, this is it. _

My relationship with Mrs. Hudson is usually at its best the least contact we have. Her convictions about house decoration and proper indoor activities more than once clashed quite strongly with mine, so we declared a sort of truce a long time ago and established confines as if we were rival nations. And like these, nothing short of fire or explosions would tempt us to dig up old arguments. Even if I usually dread her presence, hearing a sudden shout followed by a sharp, pained yelp from the storey below I went to investigate. Watson was at work, otherwise I would have deferred to his greater competence (and better relationship with the woman). But if I did nothing, there was the risk that the discomfort convinced her to send immediately for any doctor – as a woman, she couldn't be expected to quietly bear whatever it was until Watson was back in the evening – and I had met too many people of Roylott's ilk to tolerate the interference of someone else but my friend. It just wasn't _safe_.

Apparently, Mrs. Hudson's slippers had honoured their name and caused her to slip. She attempted to break the fall with her hands, and gained what I quickly determined to be a sprained wrist. She had been lucky, all things considered; at her age, she could have easily broken something. I told her so. Not that she was happy about it, for some reason. She scowled instead.

"Not to be ungrateful, Mr. Holmes," she said then "but I would like better to be diagnosed by an actual doctor than by a chemist."

"I'm sure that doctor Watson will agree with me once he's back," I affirmed.

"And you propose that I suffer until then?" she queried.

"Of course not, Mr. Hudson. I'll have you know that I survived for years on my own without ever sharing the room with a doctor unless he was a suspect. Put a bit of ice on that, then I'll bandage it for you. It will tide you over nicely until Watson is back," I informed her. "And if the pain bothers you overly much, I can always offer you the slightest dose of morphine."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Holmes. I'll trust you until the doctor is home, then," she agreed softly.

I worked quickly on her. It was much easier than I remembered when I wasn't the patient too.

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. I'll take a rest and not risk ruining your handiwork, then." She smiled warmly at me for once.

Oh right. Resting. Watson would have surely recommended it. Something always escapes my mind. I'm not a doctor after all.


	6. Regents Park

_A.N. Today's prompt is from KnightFury (thanks for the beautiful conversations dear): ice skating in Regents Park. I cheated. I admit it. And I'm not sorry about it. Kind of AU/crossoverish/I'm not even sure what with Dr. Who's "The snowmen" episode. So, SPOILERS for that. Well, Moffat started it, really (go see that and be prepared to ROFL). _

_FYI, according to Wiki "the first public police telephones in Britain were introduced in Glasgow in 1891. These tall, hexagonal, cast-iron boxes were painted red and had large gas lanterns fixed to the roof, as well as a mechanism which enabled the central police station to light the lanterns as signals to police officers in the vicinity to call the station for instructions.[...]The Met introduced police boxes throughout London between 1928 and 1937"._

_By the way, I just realized: Moffat is an open supporter of Johnlock given whom he stated Sherlock was based on in that episode. I'm an idiot, yes. I should have known ages ago._

From Dr. Watson's diary

06/12/1898

I've never dared to put pen to paper about that day, but today I'm feeling adventurous. It's not like anyone will ever read this.

Usually I can never convince Holmes to exercise for the sake of it. My friend can endure considerable physical exertions during his work, but he just doesn't see the point of simply going on a walk, and in between cases makes a wonderful impression of a knick-knack. When the weather becomes cold enough for the first ice to form, though, a rest of childishness always dragged Sherlock off the sofa. He headed eagerly towards Regents Park to ice skate, for no other reason but having fun. I went happily along. Last year, though, this playful experience twisted into something quite surreal and far more adrenaline-inducing than it had any right to be.

It all started with a rectangular, very blue building grown overnight (according to Sherlock) by the lake. Police Box was written on it, and frankly, as a hoax it was poor. We had seen one, when a case brought us to Glasgow before, ad this was the wrong shape, the wrong colour. Why someone would do that was a mystery.

Just then, a man dressed in an attire I had never seen came out of it, and was immediately followed, unbelievable as it is, by a beautiful, young lady. She too was strangely dressed, and in such a way that I blushed for her.

Incredibly, the first thing the man said was, "Wrong period."

"And wrong place, I'd say," drawled Holmes, choosing to omit all the other _wrongs_ of the circumstance. "As you're not a policeman, Mr..."

"Doctor," the young man pointed out, then refusing to yeld anything else that would bring about an identification. Not even a first name. Or a fake name; it's not like we'd realize it. His lady companion wasn't as shy, and introduced herself as Clara.

We were naturally suspicious of such a couple. It wouldn't be the first of my colleagues that we'd meet who had chosen a criminal path, but things weren't so simple. Or so believable.

When he heard our names, that extraordinary man remarked, "Wrong universe too. Really, what was _she _thinking..."

From that instant, things started happening too quickly to think (at least for me) and took such a turn that I had only known in fairy tales, to the point that I suspected Holmes of drugging me. _Again. _But there was no reason to do so in this particular instance. Maybe I had finally become crazy – probably because of my prolonged intimacy with Holmes. Or there were really more things in heaven and earth than we dreamt of, and Shakespeare was being honest instead of witty there.

When our new acquaintance reacted to angry, _literal _ice men with nothing more than an infinitely weary, "Not again._..Oh_, so _that_'s why," and an attitude half intensely protective (the only thing that made sense in all this) and half haunted towards Miss Clara, I questioned _his _sanity too. In the scant seconds while I was not fighting, that is.

With both the Doctor (who is definitely mad, and yet very wise) and Holmes working on it, though, we quickly found the mastermind (who. Looked. Like. A. Snowball. _Thing_...) behind it all, and we got rid of...it? Him?

When we invaded its den, I heard the Doctor murmur, "Oh, the irony of the multiverse..."

They (and the _wrong _police box) disappeared from our life – and the park – shortly after that. Not before Miss Clara hugged us quickly in thanks, making me quite happy and Holmes extremely uncomfortable.

Now winter is back, and the ice with it, but my friend has made no move to enjoy it. After fighting these creatures, I can't blame him, but...Damn aliens! (There. I said it.)


	7. Snowball fight!

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Sparky Dorian: Snowball fight! I feel like I fell pitifully short, but this is what I can offer. 221B, according to my word counter. _

"I'd like to enlist your help, Watson," my friend said one wintry afternoon, when our cohabitation was still new.

"Of course. About what?"

"The annual examination of our troops' quality, " he replied, a playful glint in his eyes.

"Explain," I prompted with a grin caused more by his use of _our_ than by the prospect of handling the children he employed.

"I need to check the Irregulars' prowess when aiming at moving targets. It is a skill that could become paramount if they need to protect themselves. Naturally, in an ideal situation they're supposed to slip by completely unnoticed. But I pit them against people who have every reason to be suspicious. In the off chance that they are detected, a well placed projectile is a good means to slow down or distract an enemy. Long range fighting is the only kind that they can possibly come out of as winners, and I have to know that they _will_. I can't possibly agree to utilize them otherwise. Hence the test," Holmes stated. It was very wise and thoughtful, but his attitude betrayed that it wasn't an entirely serious situation.

"And how do you conduct it?" I queried.

"Snowball fight!" he announced with a grin.

"Let me get the coat," I replied, beaming.


	8. Frippery

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Wordwielder: Frippery. I apologize because this is very similar to one of the entries for last year calendar. What can I say...that's firmly in my headcanon, I suppose. _

I'm used to seeing Holmes disguise himself, and I'm even more used to being fooled by a disguised Holmes. Maybe I'm really that unobservant, but I rather think that he was born to be an outstanding actor. He surely has the right attitude for it. The stage suffered a great loss when his relentless mind found playing a role written by someone else unspeakably boring. When I saw Holmes preparing to don a woman's attire, though, I choked on air. No matter how good he was, surely that wasn't feasible – and the explanations required would be supremely uncomfortable at best.

"Do you object, Watson?" he queried calmly.

"I don't mean to belittle your talent, but you cannot expect to fool anyone, Holmes! Your appearance is much too sharp for that," I exclaimed.

"I'm not expecting to seduce anyone, Watson, but women aren't all lovely creatures. No man would think that his fellow could willingly subject himself to wearing such clothing, so the sheer amount of frippery in this will make them all blind and even more idiot than they usually are. As for the women, they'll be too busy congratulating themselves because of my perceived ugliness. That could even gain me special kindness from them," my friend explained with a smirk.

I could see the point of his reasoning. At least about the first half. Especially now that his disguise – which he hadn't stopped to work on – was halfway done. I myself would have more readily surmised a woman quite unfortunate in the looks department than a female impersonator.

Then curiosity bit me, and I inquired, "Didn't the tailor wonder about the intended wearer of this dress not once coming to get a fitting?"

"My cousin Arabella takes great delight in providing me with everything I can conceivably require for this disguise or any of the same kind."

_P.S. Because yes, Holmes has several dresses, apt for women of different classes and situations. :D_


	9. Keeping secrets

_A.N. Yesterday's prompt comes from Galaxy1001D : Write a story where Watson attempts to keep Holmes from deducing what gift Watson bought for him this year. A day late, because I need to mull over stories even for these tidbits. Not exactly what was asked, I realize, but I think a good lawyer could argument that I'm not entirely off the mark.;-) _

Buying a gift for Holmes is hellish. Not because he's hard to please, but because at least half the fun in gift-giving is seeing the curiosity of discovering what has been chosen play on our dear ones' face. With Holmes, who is observant to the point of mind-reading, surprise is almost impossible to achieve. Sometimes, in times of infinite frustration, I envisage turning to crime simply because that would astonish him, alright, and a case is the thing that would make him the happiest anyway. But I'm never serious. I just can't be his adversary – not to mention I could never hurt anyone without provocation.

This year I was determined not to be read. I had decided to replenish his supply of a couple chemicals. I profited from a day when he asked me for the very same service so my boots wouldn't clue him. I hoped that my anxiousness not to be caught could be mistaken as discomfort at not knowing what to get him, with Christmas fast approaching. If the mix up could hold only a few days, Holmes wouldn't know what I did the day I bought his present. Good enough of a start. I asked for a separate package, and buried it in my bag. Once home, I'd put it in my room, in a drawer were I kept a few objects of high sentimental value and that was hence generally safe from my friend's nosiness. Hopefully his experiment would keep the sleuth's focus for a day or so; long enough to start phase II of my Confound Holmes plan.

Phase II is Mislead. It's not enough to give him a parcel that offers no clues. I've tried it many times, but I simply can't erase them all – because I don't notice them. Out of the two of us, I'm not the detective. So I'll offer hints...but pointing to the wrong thing. Not openly, of course; he would divine what I'm trying to do. But playing 'you always deduce it anyway, so I'm not trying to disguise it anymore'. If I offer to do an errand for her, Mrs. Hudson will be grateful; I'll just pop by the bakery (the one that has these biscuits Holmes does spontaneously nibble on, on occasion) and bring back an extra sheet of the ones they use to package their goods. I'll use it to repack my gift (I'll have to be sneaky, for sure) and ask Mrs. Hudson to keep it in her cupboard, next to the spices. These chemicals are completely inert (until Holmes gets to them), so there's no danger, and my friend has been banned from anything kitchen-related, so it'll be safe from discovery and absorb ginger, cinnamon and other lovely aromas. If Holmes deduces right again, I'll really start to doubt that he 's gifted with preternatural perceptions.


	10. Irregular morning

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from mrspencil (you know I admire you) and Ennui Enigma (better known as Muse): A morning in the life of an Irregular. I am going back to an OMC of mine of a year ago. Probably still twisting the prompts, but I can't help my wayward inspiration. Sorry, my lovelies!_

Spencer wakes up, and quickly slips out of the place. So maybe he didn't have permission to sleep there, but it was _warm_, and if nobody noticed it means that he didn't hurt a soul, right? That's always been his one rule. He'll sneak a bite somewhere later, now he has to get ready.

Before he started working for Mr. Holmes, things looked grim indeed. He's never known his father (but if you ask him, his dad is the bastard out of the two of them). His mum (the best mum in the world, really) had taken care of him – even taught him to read, because she was unfortunate, not stupid – but then she got ill, and he'd been lost. He'd pickpocketed a lot (always people who could afford it), and it was clear that he was bound to continue like that, if not worsen, until he got caught. And then repeat the cycle.

Until Wiggins noticed him, ad offered him a place in Holmes' Irregulars (he's never inquired _why _there was a position open). It had tided him over, more than once. Then a day he went to report. Not a success, sadly, but Holmes wanted to their progress nonetheless, and he was closer than their unofficial captain. He must have looked really miserable that day, and in need of money, because the Doctor asked him to do a quick errand, even if he wouldn't usually require such menial tasks. No matter that the weather was horrible and Watson had to be hurting. So he brought a manuscript to the Strand (there was a deadline coming, apparently) and found himself near heaven as he could be. He noticed an error in a copy lying around and got roped into helping, and now had a job – well, an apprenticeship. Which meant that he should not need to sneak into places to stay warm, but he was saving for mum's medicines, and her Christmas gift. And a gift for the Doctor, if he could spare enough.

He's still one of the Irregulars, though. Later, when Tom's sister comes to tell him Holmes needs them all, he excuses himself, calls his substitute (yeah, he got a stand-in) and runs. Good think the Strand's workers are all eager for spoilers. That wouldn't be possible otherwise.


	11. Rushed back

_A.N. Today's prompt is from KnightFury again: Watson is rushed off his feet at his practice. What awaits him at home? I was going to do something tragic with it, then I stopped myself. For my new plan to work, though, I needed Married!Watson. Since I believe Married!Watson had home and practice in the same building (maybe it's mad headcanon of mine, I'm not sure) I upended the prompt slightly. Do forgive me. Late for pc problems. And my first spontaneous John/Mary. I'm surprised of myself. _

I was newly married, and seeing an elderly patient on a home call, when I saw Anstruther himself coming to get me like a man possessed. I always let him know where I would be in case an emergency arose, and this was very clearly one such occasion. I had all kinds of ominous visions flitting in my mind, and when he croaked, "Fire," you can imagine how quick I was to go back or what my mind conjured up in the meantime.

I surely didn't expect to breathe easier once home. Seeing Mary safe and sane, looking more bashful and worried than truly scared, and the situation – thanks to our neighbours help – contained and on its way to resolution, the relief made me smile reflexively.

She gave me a somehow unsure smile back, but then frowned and said, "It wasn't supposed to do that."

I blinked, wondering if my marriage had been a wonderful, impossible dream, and if I'd wake up to a charred sitting room and Holmes, who had uttered the very same words too many times for me to count. "Just don't tell me that it was an experiment," I pleaded.

"As you wish," she replied, "though I _was_ trying a new recipe..."

"And how did the fire happen?" I queried, very calmly.

"I'm not entirely sure," my love admitted. "A note from Mrs. Forrester came, and I had to give an answer to it, so I was distracted. When I went back to the kitchen, it was already more than our dinner that was burning. I was perhaps excessively startled, so I bothered our neighbours, they helped... and here you are."

"_Excessively_ startled?" echoed Anstruther disbelieving, who apparently had hovered in the vicinity – I had downright forgotten him since seeing my wife.

"By your countenance I thought the house had already burned down; I thank you for the warning, but didn't think you were prone to panic," I quipped.

"But she said fire, and fire is _scary_,"he objected, flabbergasted. I strongly suspected that he'd come to get me himself to get away from the source of his phobia.

I didn't reply, but my face must have talked for me. When Mary said politely, "I'm very sorry about inconveniencing you; I shouldn't have," he remarked, "You're both crazy...but well assorted, I guess."


	12. Break in

_A.N. Yesterday's prompt comes from KnightFury (third time is the charm, but which one, I wonder?): house-breaking at Baker Street. Well, yesterday by ten minutes. 221B again. Written in a rush, so maybe not of the highest quality. Sorry about that. Please forgive me. I wanted it out.  
_Our home is never entirely tidy, despite Mrs. Hudson's brave attempts. Organized chaos is the term (yes, I realize it is an oxymoron) best apt to describe our rooms. What we found a day, coming back home from a fruitless chase, was sheer havoc. I backtracked instinctively from the half-destroyed room.

"It appears that we just missed each other," Holmes calmly remarked.

"We should have just enjoyed our rooms' comfort and we'd have met these people you are so eager to find, my friend. It is rather ironic that your dynamic approach to the case made us fail at apprehending them." It can seem a cocky statement, but we did catch our men later. I knew our quarry enough to be sure than they wouldn't escape us once we found them, no matter if they fought.

"I didn't think they would realize that they left behind evidence; Athelney Jones didn't even recognize it as such. I wouldn't have dragged you around if I imagined that they would come to get it back," my friend replied with a smile. This development clearly pleased him.

"Have you lost your proof then?" I inquired sympathetically.

"I haven't," my friend assured me. It wasn't left at home, then.

"Holmes...What are we supposed to say to when she's back?"


	13. The worst Homecoming

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Alosha135 (third from this author too; it makes me happy): the worst homecoming. I usually feel guilty when I give you angst/tragedy in this challenge, but when it's asked of me I can indulge unrepentantly. Warning: depression galore ahead. _

He doesn't want to go home. Not that it is a home anymore. A house, certainly. But _home –_ a place you can look forward to, because there's where you find warmth and support and happiness – is out of his reach.

But he can't bear to be near people, either. Not even the deeply well-meaning, caring people he somehow still has in his life. Not that he deserves them. They'll probably die if he gets too attached anyway.

So he goes home, or to the place that used to be, and it's cold and empty and lonely and apparently that is what God decreed as John Hamish Watson's lot in life. He must have sinned terribly to have everyone he bonds with so neatly picked from his side, he's certain, but he has no idea_ what _he's done. If he knew, he could atone. If he did, he wouldn't be damned to survive anymore. Probably. But he can't divine his fault, and even if the trend had already been set (his family gone, and then so many of his brothers in arms) he didn't realize it when he had Holmes. If presented with the case, maybe the detective could have deduced the reason of John's damnation.

Instead it's only after having so spectacularly failed his friend that John started to wonder about his unsought, sometimes unwanted survival skills. Losing Mary too (he's just back from her funeral) made misunderstanding impossible. Living when there's no one to live for is meant to be his punishment. He'd just like to know how long his sentence is.


	14. Bubbles

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Book girl fan again: A case where the critical clue involved bubbles. I'm horrible at casefics, so I apologize in advance. I stole the idea (but not the plot) from an Amelia Peabody (she's the detective, not author) book then forcibly involved bubbles. Oh, and Holmes is his usual self – as in, he insults women in general. But we all know how he is and during what century he lived. Since I'm a woman, too, I hope to be exempted from accuses of chauvinism. XD Sorry again for the horrible quality. _

"I can't believe that she was guilty," I said, after a mysterious case where a young nobleman's death had been puzzling everyone for the unique, very inconspicuous killing method.

"You're always blinded by a beautiful, young woman, Watson, and it's worse if she's in apparent distress. How many times did I tell you that looks have no relations with ethics?" my friend remarked.

"But I would have sworn that you liked her too, Holmes!" I protested.

"Her scientific interests weren't feigned, so naturally I found her intriguing. But it's exactly her knowledge in your field that gave her an exact idea of where to strike," he freely admitted. "And she did have a creative mind."

I couldn't dispute that. It's not everyday that someone kills by inserting a hatpin into the victim's brain. The clues it left behind would have been overlooked or misinterpreted by everyone else. Not by Holmes.

"Still, how could you suspect her of the crime? Even if she had the notions – hell, even once you determined the weapon, there were other women involved in this case who could have access to the same knowledge if they needed it. And she was grieving, Holmes!" I exclaimed.

When my friend had made his accusation, I had wanted to defend her. But she confessed too quickly for me to get a word in, luckily, looking more relieved at being understood than dismayed at being caught. My blindness smarted more than usual.

"She played her role very well, for sure. But I suspected that she might be less oblivious to her fiancé's sins than she pretended to be. She was intelligent, and feelings shouldn't have kept her blind during the long time of their engagement. Men like him always let slip too many hints of their true character for someone of her cleverness to consistently ignore. Hence I believed that she had motive, and obviously she could easily create an opportunity. What made me sure that she did were her young cousin's words."

"That child? Surely you jest, Holmes! He bothered her and was given a bit of soapy water to make bubbles. How is that a sign of murder?" I queried, flabbergasted. I had heard a lot of apparently inconsequential clues from my friend, but this surpassed most of them.

"That child was very lucky, as he could have easily become a second victim if he had chosen to be nosy only a little later. Think, Watson! The very first thing our murderess had at hand to distract him was soapy water. But a young, aristocratic woman's lifestyle does not require exertions that would require washing herself in the middle of the day, much less chores. She allegedly spent the window of time in which the crime took place in the library. Why would she feel the urge to wash after that?" he replied.

"Are you saying that she dirtied herself while committing the crime? That method wouldn't leave many traces on her," I objected. I wanted Holmes to have come to the right conclusion by following the wrong track, if only because I didn't want to accept that a young, innocent boy could have been killed too.

"Not on her, you're right," Holmes easily agreed. "On the weapon, though, most certainly. She must have wiped it hastily clean – she couldn't very well go around with it dirty of blood and brain matter. She was lucky that nobody met her in her goings, but she couldn't be certain of it. I reckon that she was about to wash whatever she used for that task. She couldn't hand it to the maid, could she?"

If she had been interrupted during such a chore, I really didn't know what she could have done. She surrendered with good grace enough, but soon after the crime, with her emotions still unsettled...I tried not to dwell on my friend's hypothesis about the kid's fate being all too plausible. Death I know how to handle, but that of children is something that shakes me up even as theoretical prospect.

"Why didn't she simply destroy whatever it was outright, Holmes?" I wondered. "She did it later on after all. Honestly, if she hadn't confessed, there wasn't much that you could have done."

"I suspect that her sex's upbringing has driven into her that at least an attempt to clean must be made. In a way, it's sad that such a compulsion would betray her, when her brightness made me treat her like a male and assume that her acts had logical reasons. And I would have obtained her confession anyhow." My friend stated that last sentence quite emphatically.

"If you say so, Holmes," I acquiesced.


	15. Dad Watson

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Alosha135 (thank you for the interesting AU inspiration): if Watson had a child. Fourth prompt from this author out of 15. A bond is being formed by the questionably random prompt assigner. Or I just attract some people's prompts. Ennui Enigma – happy birthday dear! – can attest to that, since hers last year often came to me._

In every parent's life the dreaded moment comes when their child still likes and wishes for fairy tales, but has grown bored of the endless repetition of the once loved classics.

The Watson household was, obviously, no exception to that rule. But John Hamish Watson, soldier, doctor, and stoyteller extraordinaire – Holmes' opinion on the matter notwithstanding – was not to be daunted by the occasion. When his son William told him, "please dad, not Jack and the Beanstalk _again_," John only hummed thoughtfully and replied, "What about another Jack?"

Little Bill perked up, willing to give a try to the new hero. And if this one wasn't predictable – befriending a dragon instead of slaying him on sight like every other knight – it made the child only happier. Not that the dragon was quite like his brethren. While they were pretty content to sit over their gold and occasionally eat someone who was offered in tribute, Jack's friend was much more restless, and the treasure he hoarded was an omnium gatherum where very little of value to anyone else could be found.

The story (or better said, the first episode) eventually ended. That evening, in a rare, quiet moment of privacy his wife laughed softly, "A dragon John? Really? With all the people you both helped, wouldn't a knight be more apt for Mr. Holmes?"

"It was that obvious, was it? Honestly the spark for that came from Mycroft. Maybe a ice dragon, but he would make quite a respectable one, if you consider him from the right point of view. He has the right attitude. And we had fires and explosions enough during our cohabitation that I feel justified about how I classified Holmes," he answered with a grin.


	16. The Giant Rat of Sumatra

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from SheWhoScrawls: The Giant Rat of Sumatra. Why is the world not yet prepared? I had a plot for this but it's Johnlock and requires more than a day, so I'll get around to it some other time (yeah, I'm a tease). Honestly, I think that the best account of that is in the episode "The talons of Weng Chiang" of the Fourth Doctor Who. I'm twisting things around instead. _

When an old friend of mine tries to get Holmes _off _a case, you can be sure it is an unique occurrence. Especially when said friend informs me that she changed her first name.

Holmes had been hired by a woman distraught over the disappearance of her brother. She had received no requests from the kidnappers whose existence she surmised – as his brother would never do that. It wasn't the first vanishing in the neighbourhood, and we were suspecting an evil organization at play. At least I did, as Holmes was silent about his hypotheses as it was his wont during a case.

We were home when Dorothy came to us. The moment I called her such, though, she curtly replied, "I go by Agnes these days." We grew up together; her father raised her like the boy he had wanted, and so she was the one who taught me how to shoot. Before I could ask her why the different identity, she turned to my flatmate and stated, "Mr. Holmes, you are to abandon the case. Torchwood will take care of it."

"It would be incredibly remiss on my part. Especially because I don't know this Torchwood you speak of, Miss," he replied coldly.

"Not many are aware of us, which is just as well; our Institute has been recently established by the queen herself. You don't want to contend with us, Mr. Holmes."

"I have only your word for it," the detective remarked.

"I might involve you, since I have the power to do so; but you'll wish you weren't," she said with a smirk. "Actually, we're a bit short on manpower – we didn't have the time to recruit much – so, John, if your shooting skills are still up to par I'd like to have your help. As long as you don't blabber about it afterwards," she told me.

"You don't have to make it a challenge to persuade me," I assured. "But you might as well employ Holmes too, because even if I shut up he'll read what happened on me."

"Oh, I doubt it," she laughed.

Then the case turned quickly to a cross between a hunt and a nightmare. She led us (and a couple of her operatives) to a maze of tunnels very well hidden – I'm sure that Holmes blamed himself harshly for not noticing – where we found the half-eaten, pitiful rests of the disappeared people. We didn't dwell on such a tragic sight. A rat more than three feet tall – tall, as he stood on his hind legs – was enough to distract us from any morose considerations. The fact that it was scantily clad, over the reddish (bloody perhaps?) fur didn't help. It looked as he'd really dressed, rather than dragged behind some of his victims' clothing.

"Which hell has spawned that thing?" I burst out.

"Sumatra, we reckon; it appeared since the last boat from there landed," the newly baptised Agnes stated calmly, before asking us to capture the beast alive if at all possible.

Holmes scoffed.

The capture proved impossible after all. The rat was strong, agile, and had retractable claws which it knew how to use. But the monster was killed in the end, while everyone in our little party survived. I had to treat the Torchwood agents, but it was a victory.

Before they left, Holmes remarked, "You don't have to insult our intelligence by lying."

"When did I?" Agnes replied, pugnacious.

"The time frame might be correct, but that thing didn't come from Sumatra. That place would be depopulated otherwise. In truth, I can't see that creature's ilk living anywhere on Earth without creating much havoc, so that we would have heard of it long ago," he countered.

"By protocol I should drug you, or lie better, but you seem at ease after such a realization. I'm asking you not to share that knowledge. We don't want the public to panic needlessly. They aren't ready to acknowledge events such as these. Torchwood has been set up to protect people from circumstances like today's," she emphatically stated.

We agreed. What else could we do?

_P.S. I apologize – but only a little – for the three-way crossover probably very messed up. Agnes Havisham comes from the Torchwood novel 'Risk Assessment' which I did not read, but the web is a sea of information and I like fishing. The alien is modelled after the Ranat from Star Wars. Alien species list on wiki helps a lot. _


	17. Mary-Watson fluff (I fail)

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Spockologist: Mary/Watson fluff. It's the hardest I had to write. Not (only) because of the pairing, mind you. I can always write angst, but for fluff I had to go to wikipedia to get a clear idea of what was expected of me. XD So, probably epic fail. _

From Mary Watson (née Morstan)'s diary

"I swear, Holmes does it on purpose," my love remarked today, just back from a case.

"Does what, love?" I queried with a smile.

"Every time he brings me along the ugliest and pettiest consequences of love – well, lust really – come up. It's like he's trying to prove a point."

"Pay him back, why don't you?" I suggested.

"How?" he replied, curious.

"Persuade him to drop by. Trick me if you must. He'll have to acknowledge how blissful love can be."

"I doubt it'll be that easy," John laughed.

"Oh I think it will. Our love was decreed in heaven though; it must be powerful," I stated.

"In heaven dear?...That _would _explain my incredible luck to have you agreeing to marry me," he replied.

"I thought it was evident," I said softly. I've always felt like you were my late father's true bequest. Way more precious a treasure than all the jewels of Asia, too."

_P.S. Sorry for the horrible – probably off topic – piece. At least it's short. :-)_


	18. Pickpocketing

_A.N. First of all, thank you so very much to all of you, my lovelies! More than 90 reviews. I can't believe it. For the 100__th __reviewer, there will be a reward (next year, because I'm writing too many things at once): a one-shot of his/her request. _ _Today's__prompt comes from cjnwriter: One of the Irregulars pickpockets somebody important. Probably the details are all wrong, but it should be much better than yesterday, at the very least. _ _Set before Spencer found work at the Strand._

The one rule Spencer adhered to was, "Always pickpocket people who can afford it." The last thing he wanted was to lead someone to desperation. This man – the fat, elegantly dressed guy – definitely could afford it. He probably could afford to lose ten wallets. So Spencer relived him of his 'burden' without a shred of guilt. When he eagerly examined his loot, though, he was equally puzzled and dejected. The money was plenty, but all weird.

Spencer ran to Baker Street. He usually was shy about confronting Mrs. Hudson, but this time it was for a case, so she wouldn't grumble. It just happened that he was the client in the Case of the Wrong Money. Mr. Holmes readily accepted to take a look, so he must have been bored. He deduced where Spencer had 'worked' – Knightsbridge – and then stated, "These are francs, Spencer. You appear to have stolen from the new French ambassador. He was due to arrive today. With all likelihood, you acted, with singular untimeliness, while he was going to change his money."

"And will I get in trouble for that?"

P.S. Sorry to those who read it all mashed up. :$$$ Thank you so very much to KnightFury for telling me of the format problem.


	19. Doctor Holmes

_A.N. Today's prompt is courtesy of Alosha135: if Holmes was a doctor. First attempt of an all-dialogue fic. Naturally became a 221, though last word does not start with B so I can't claim the 221B._

"I'm worried about Mrs. Pengelley. I'm not entirely sure about what ails her and – don't think that I'm mad, Mike, but her attacks are...strangely timed."

"Do you suspect that someone might have a hand, so to speak, in her illness?"

"I don't know what I am supposed to think, honestly."

"Then, John, you want to see Sherlock Holmes. He is an authority on poisons...and other ways people can get rid of each other." "Other ways?" "He helps the police on a somehow regular basis. Post mortems, of course, but really rumours say that Holmes has solved many a not exactly medical doubt for London's finest. Which is just as well, because he is insufferable whenever he isn't working for them."

"And is he working for them now?"

"Not to my knowledge. That's why I'm sure that he will take to your suspects like a fish to the water."

"Do you know when his shift is? I'd really like to speak him as soon as possible."

"Shifts don't affect much when he works. You will always – well, almost – find Holmes around here, keeping busy with something or another. I don't think that he likes being home that much. Come on, John, let's go see him!"

"Lead the way."


	20. Climbing a tree

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Book girl fan: Holmes climbs a tree. That usually seems to entail rabid dogs in fanon, but I tried a different route. Hopefully it's okay. :-)_  
I've followed Holmes in many a chase. It was still an unique experience when our prey could quite literally be defined so. We had been called to a crime scene by Inspector Gregson, and after examining the body Holmes looked over the room. A shiny something – cuff link? ring? – on the floor had immediately attracted his attention, but not only his. The window was open, and a magpie decided to be faithful to its species' nickname and steal the evidence before my friend had a chance to study it. Hence our dashing in the mansion's park (the victim had been a wealthy man – not that it protected him) after a black and white bird. From the very same window our thief had used – luckily we were on the ground floor. It finally settled, concealing its loot in its nest and cawing victoriously.

"Oh, good!" Holmes exclaimed, "now we can get it!"

He handed me his jacket and then promptly started climbing the tree. I was a bit worried when I saw the magpie show more bravery than I'd credited it and try to defend its nest. Luckily, my friend was soon back with his prize, only slightly the worse for wear.

"Now let's see where this fits," he said.


	21. Haywire experiment

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Alosha135 (I'm a magnet for those): an experiment goes wrong and Watson is injured. I'm not entirely satisfied with it, but I know when a cause is lost. _

It was nothing more than bad luck, really. We were on a case, and Holmes was keeping busy by analysing some samples taken from the crime scene while he waited for one of the people he had tailed by the Irregulars to make a mistake that would give us an opening. In his impatience for news, he hurried to open the door the moment he recognized Wiggins' thread on the stairs, coming for his report, so leaving the process unattended. At the same time, I moved to go to my room to fetch the revolver in case we needed it. It was the only reason that, when a still exploded, I took the brunt of it. Thankfully there were no acids in it, but I could have done without the shards of glass.

Holmes had his back to what happened, and I saw him stiffen with panic at the sudden explosion. Wiggins' "Ouch, Doc!" but otherwise calm demeanour had a great part in assuring him that nothing serious had happened, I'm sure, but there was a deep concern in his eyes when he turned to assess the situation.

"It shouldn't have done that," my friend said, but his voice held none of the usual "It's the world that's wrong," tone which this sentence always carried.

"That I can believe," I assured. Holmes wouldn't leave a dangerous reaction unattended, not for all the reports in the world. And honestly the look of pure guilt that flashed over him didn't suit him at all, and I wanted it gone.

"Let's see to you, old chap," he stated. I was grateful for the offer, since I instinctively protected myself and most of the shards embedded themselves in my hands, making it hard to treat myself. Meanwhile, Wiggins had gone quiet and given us a wide berth. Evidently the reports weren't desperately urgent, and he had no interest in the proceedings.

Holmes was as gentle as he could be, and I heard him murmur under his breath insults at himself in a constant stream for his idiotic carelessness as he worked. It was nothing serious, but it was the principle of me getting hurt because of his oversight that bothered him. Especially when he had to treat a shard that had stubbornly found its way to my face. It was no worse that I did to myself by shaving sometimes, but I saw his eyes flicker to mine and calculate how easy it would have been for that stray shard to find its way there. I wanted to pull him out of his guilt trip, but doing so without drawing attention to it and hence exacerbating it was difficult. I did the only thing I could do.

"Report, Wiggins," I called the moment my friend was done. That would distract him.

_P.S. To those who hoped for worse: sorry but I couldn't hurt seriously Watson this close to Christmas. Holmes beats himself enough over it as it is. _


	22. Birds

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from cjnwriter: Birds. Ok, this is weird. I blame mrspencil's eighth marvel this month for putting this AU into my mind. _

John was a sparrow. He was born in the garden of the Watson family, so if you are a registry office employee and can't leave the job behind, I suppose you can call him John Watson. Not that the other birds did. As his brethren, he didn't look like anything special, anything worthy to be looked at twice, and he'd probably concur on that too. But you couldn't be more wrong than believing it.

You perhaps know that sparrows are highly social creatures. John was certainly no exception. No matter how friendly, you'd expect that if you sparrows are together and one gets pounced on by a stray cat, the other would fly away. Not John. He'd retaliated bravely and gotten hurt for his troubles. And no, the other sparrow wasn't a pretty female, if that's what you are suspecting. In truth, it would have ended very bad for John if his friend Bill hadn't noticed and persuaded a veritable flock of friends to attack the cat all at once. The feline, convinced that sparrows were all mad there, decided to go find prey that wouldn't infect him with craziness. Things were still looking grim for John, to be sure, but the Watson kid found him and nursed him back to health.

After that experience would you expect any sane bird to start frequenting the zoo? With the wild cats? Sure, John was beneath their notice. But the zoo had a breeding program, and John wasn't entirely beneath the youngest cubs' notice. Not that they caught him.

...So maybe John was mad. But he liked interesting things, and once he'd entered the zoo and seen all the strange species, he couldn't stay away. Of course, he was naturally attracted the most to the transparent pavilion of tropical birds. Now,_ there_ were birds to look at twice. And thrice. And again. Even if often they weren't very friendly.

One day, there was a new arrival in the pavilion. For a moment, John wasn't sure that it wasn't a marvellous, iridescent butterfly. Then it spoke. "If you keep staring, another cat will get you." Which was weird, because he (definitely an he) had said 'another cat', not 'a cat', but John bore no obvious signs of his incident.

Apparently to Sherlock (that was his name, John discovered) he did. Which was amazing. Of course John said so.

Sherlock replied, "It's like flying backwards," and demonstrated it.

John just had to point out, "I've never seen a bird capable to do that, either!"

"Really? How dull."

Sherlock didn't like other birds – he barely tolerated the other exotic exemplars in the pavilion. He found John interesting, though, and John happily came back to chat with him. Hence, when winter came, Sherlock said, "Try to sneak in here when the humans come to take care of us. At least you'll stay warm." And so John did.

_P.S. Sooo...Winglock I guess? For who's wondering, Sherlock is an hummingbird. There's a species called Bee Hummingbird too ( :D ), but I'm not saying it was his. Pick your favorite. _


	23. Opera

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from SheWhoScrawls: The Opera. Not sure that this isn't off topic (off prompt?) but now I can't find another plot that satisfies me, so forgive me if I am. Royal Italian Opera is the name the Royal Opera House had until 1892 and I figured that this was set pre-Hiatus _

I'd been treated to a veritable concert by my friend – he can put to shame the best violinists when he's in the mood – and I finally voiced what I had often thought. "It's almost a sin that you didn't pursue this as a career, old fellow. A great many people are being deprived of the purest form of enjoyment they could have."

"As a child, I entertained that project. I dreamed to become first violin for the Royal Italian Opera orchestra. I could play to my heart's content, be praised for it and not miss a single performance. It looked like a heavenly prospect, and my mother was far from averse to it," Holmes confessed, with a rare nostalgic smile.

I smiled back, grateful for the gift of his confidences, and enjoying very much picturing a young Holmes eager to make a living with his artistic talent and his rightfully proud mother. "What made you abandon that ambition? Because I know that it wasn't, as for most, realizing that you lacked the ability," I inquired, curious.

"Thank you, dear chap," Holmes said softly. "Growing up, I became aware that working in a large team, having to be considerate of everyone else, required quite more effort than I was willing to exert. Being led by someone else, too, had lost all his appeal."

"Right. Of course. It's still a pity, though. I have the privilege to hear you play, and I can't help but wish sometimes that your gift be more widely appreciated."

"Privilege, Watson? I'll have to remind you at my next nocturnal performance," Holmes quipped.


	24. Christmas decorating

_A.N. Today's prompt is from cjnwriter: Christmas decorating at 221b. I did not do research for it, so maybe all wrong for the century._

Watson would have loved to fully decorate the flat at Christmas, with all the usual ornaments and then some. Holmes had quickly smothered that plan, though. Mistletoe apparently wasn't even up for debate.

"I won't allow you to make an attempt on any female clients' virtue with such a shallow excuse this month. Requests are usually rare enough this time of the year. Not to mention we are the likeliest people to get underneath it, and that'd be just awkward," his flatmate had stated.

Watson had to concede the last point, and tried to protest any impure thoughts about the distressed women who sought their help (perhaps too much), so mistletoes was not to be.

Garlands around the room "would just get in the way and catch fire," according to Holmes. The doctor honestly didn't see in the way of what, but he knew better than to ask. And catching fire was a very serious threat. Their drapes could attest to that.

Before Holmes could talk him out of everything, Watson said, "Fine. A Christmas tree. Nothing else. I'll set it the farthest I can from the table you experiment on, on the opposite corner to the hearth, so it should not burn unless someone willfully does it. But I _will _set it up, Holmes."

His friend had accepted the compromise. Watson's total submission was not a thing of this world outside of death-or-life matters, and it would have been distasteful if it was. So the doctor had picked out his tree, and was currently considering the better placement of bows, garlands and glittering balls. It was an important matter; the decorations had to create a balanced combination, and the ones he wasn't too satisfied with were to be hidden in not easily noticed places. Or, well, not noticed by normal humans. Holmes would observe, but since he didn't like anything Christmas related after all, there was little point in trying to meet his taste or asking his input. Watson hummed contentedly to himself while he worked, determined to ignore his flatmate.

Still, Holmes going out was a bit much. They had no case, it was deucedly cold and there was nothing the sleuth could possibly need. Not to the doctor's knowledge, and he liked to think that was somehow extensive. Escaping the situation was really not required, was it?

A little later, Watson had to stop himself from gaping at a returned Holmes contributing to the pile of decorations. Two shiny tin birds which could be clipped to the branches, one with wings and tail painted a brilliant red and the other a vibrant green.

"At least on that tree there'll be something that actually makes sense."

_P.S. I have the birdies on my Christmas tree since I was a child. One has lost his tail, the paint is all chipped, but they're still lovely. I couldn't resist. _


	25. Gifts

_A. N. Yesterday's prompt comes from Madam'zelleGiry: Watson's gift-giving ability is unsurpassed by anyone in London! Warning: overly sappy. Might hurt if you have diabetes._

It wasn't fair. It was the first Christmas after Sherlock was finally back home, and Mycroft had wanted to make his little brother the happiest he could be. So what if they had their differences? Sherlock deserved it. And honestly, said differences were mostly pretended, a safety measure not unlike what his little brother had done for the doctor the past years, if in a diminished version. Not 'he doesn't even know that I'm alive, so leave him alone', but 'we're so cold to each other that there's no reason to hurt one to make the other suffer; hell, the unscathed brother might be vaguely smug about it'. Same principle.

No pretences tonight, though. And if making Sherlock happy involved being extravagant and somehow procuring a poisonous alkaloid from South America for him to play with (and hadn't that request caused people to wonder about Mycroft, too) it was worth it. Oh, Sherlock had been happy about it, alright.

But Mycroft wasn't used to being outdone. Amazingly obtaining that hadn't been the absolute highlight of his little brother's day, and it smarted. And how had the doctor – because it had to be Watson who managed such a feat, of course – managed to make Sherlock ecstatic? With a book! No, not a book – Mycroft had to be precise – with a dedication. Whatever had been written there – forgiveness, promise to never part, Mycroft hadn't pried but was pretty sure it was either, or perhaps both – had put on his brother's face a smile Mycroft hadn't seen in decades. Oh well. It was Christmas. Even Sherlock was entitled to be sentimental today.


	26. Consultants

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Book girl fan:Holmes may not be the world's only consulting detective. This is set pre-Watson. Gregson's point of view. _

Dear uncle Raphael,

I write to apologize. When you gave me Poe's book, insisting that you met the person after which Dupin had been modelled, I didn't believe you. Well, I believed you until I read the book.

That you met in Boston a very bright young man in your prime, I could easily accept. That his words offered you an interesting point of view that made you consider a new avenue – the correct avenue – in your investigations more than once I knew it was true. You're not so humble that you would credit your successes to a stranger. Admitting that you asked an amateur's input must not have been easy, so I knew this Douglas March had to be special. Poe wouldn't have picked him out to immortalize in a book otherwise, I guess, even if he changed continent to make sure people's privacy was kept.

But when you insisted that whatever Poe wrote, he'd been understating rather than aggrandising his character's abilities, as writers are wont to do, that I simply couldn't believe after having read the book. I supposed that you wanted to enforce how you were justified in seeking a dilettante's help because he was some sort of godlike being.

As I wrote, I apologize. I must have met your consultant's relative, or disciple, or maybe simply this century is plentiful in extraordinarily clever men. Perhaps these are the forerunners of further progress in the human race's mental capabilities. Long story short, I've met this Holmes fellow and I can finally see that Poe and you weren't necessarily overselling your acquaintance. And I can see why you would go to him in the trickiest circumstances. To be honest, I will probably go to my own genius too. Anything to make sure that justice is served, right, uncle?

Apologetically yours,

Tobias


	27. Mrs Hudson solves a mystery

_A.N. Today's prompt is from mrspencil and Ennui Enigma (so glad!): Mrs Hudson solves a mystery. I'm very sorry about the half case (again), but I couldn't do better. _

The case was quite similar to the one of the Dancing Men. Again we had a woman growing more and more terrified without apparent reason, and someone – this time a brother – wanting to understand. We had no idea, though, about how the threats – if they existed – were delivered. After she was widowed our client's sister had led a very secluded life, and even with Holmes' considerable imagination we could not find how a threatening message would reach her. Her brother already checked the obvious means, and came up short.

I was starting to doubt that this could be the consequence of her grief, but it seemed odd that fear rather than depression were the result. The woman had been scared into literal muteness, and there was no collaboration to be had from her.

After examining her life with a fine comb, we preceded her in her usual visit to her husband's grave, hoping to discover something. No such luck.

"That woman isn't mad. There must be a reason for her terrors, something I missed," Holmes whispered angrily.

Just then Mrs. Hudson – who clearly came from a visit to her own late husband – noticed our presence in the cemetery and came up to us. Before even than she inquired about our presence, she looked around and remarked with a frown, "Who would want to convey to a dead man malevolence, war and death itself, Mr. Holmes? And that...not innocence, it doesn't fit. Maybe silence?"

"What do you mean?" I queried before my friend could reply.

"Achilleas, lobelias, black and white roses; that's what they mean," she explained, pointing out the bouquet already laying on the grave.

"You're invaluable, Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes exclaimed. "She must have a reason to consider it as directed to her, but you've found our threats. Now, to discover the sender..."

_P.S. I realize that is an expert in cryptography, but I don't see him knowing the language of flowers. Too much romantic, imho. _


	28. Spotlight

_A.N. Today's prompt is from Sparky Dorian: A minor character steals the show. I decided to be literal. :-) By the way, I'll be using 'he' for a dog because I just can't see him as a thing. I'm not sure if that's correct. _

My friend has never shied away from whatever a case might require of him. To join a travelling circus whose members he suspected to deal in various traffics was no exception. I suggested that he executed a mind reading trick, but Holmes only scoffed.

"Don't be absurd, Watson; the last thing I want is to alert our suspects that I am able to read them – mostly," he objected.

"If you aren't going to openly make use of your cleverness, I'd like to come with you in this venture," I said.

"You'll help me better if you keep out of it. I'll require a liaison officer to help me from the outside at need," Holmes replied.

"If you say so." But I wasn't entirely convinced.

"I won't be completely alone, if it comforts you. I won't have the leisure to search extensively in these circumstances, so I'm bringing Toby along to smell out what's being smuggled".

"Better than nothing, I suppose," I acknowledged. Toby was a loyal dog and wouldn't stand to see Holmes attacked, I was sure. He might not have been bred for the fight, but he would bite if need be.

Later, when we managed to meet – Holmes had agreed to regular meetings to let me know that all was going well – I saw my friend glaring at Toby.

"What's he done now?"

"That mutt refused to be apart from me in such odd surroundings. He came on stage while I was working so I had to come up on the spot with a way of including him. And absurd as it is, people liked him much better."


	29. Mrs Lestrade

_A.N. Today's prompt comes from Madam'zelleGiry: When Lestrade is out late on Yard business, his wife worries about him. _

Iris Lestrade (née Lawrence) liked to think of herself as a strong woman. You simply had to be one, after all, to smile every morning knowing that you sent your beloved up against robbers, murderers and other various scum. She was proud of Greg, of course she was; he kept her and everyone else as safe as they could be.

This didn't mean that sometimes she didn't wish – for a grand total of five seconds – that Greg had chosen a career as an accountant or some else nine-to-five boring job. He would have gone stir-crazy quickly – and mad in a month if he had, of course. But he'd be home now, and she wouldn't be plagued by her own overactive imagination. Greg attacked, Greg hurt, Greg left to die in a gutter. In a hundred different ways. That's what she kept seeing in her mind.

She never let him know how almost literally sick with worry she became sometimes. After all, if he could be home, he would be. She was so much luckier than many women in that respect. There would be no point in nagging him. Greg would only – slowly but surely – grow more and more irritated with her for not understanding the requirements of his work, and she didn't wish for that.

Every time she was overcome with anxiety, she sent a quick prayer that Greg had chosen to consult Mr. Holmes for the particular matter keeping him who-knows-where, and that they would be together. Not because she had no confidence in her beloved's abilities. Because Holmes meant having Watson around, too, so if Greg – God forbid – got hurt he'd be immediately treated. It wasn't only in springing a trap that time could be of essence.


	30. Not amused

_A. N. Today's prompt comes from Lucillia: Queen Victoria is not amused. Neither is Mycroft._

_I honestly have no idea how this was born. Bad? Good? Worse?n _

"Our gracious queen is not amused," Mycroft hissed. Jupiter had left his orbit twice in a week, and looked thunderous.

"I don't see why; I've done everything you both wanted," my friend drawled back.

"You dare to say that after causing all that! I know that you had nothing better going on, Sherlock. Would it really have killed you to behave for a couple of hours?" his brother asked.

"I've done nothing but indulge our queen's young relative's fancies, exactly like you asked me, Mycroft. Really, if this isn't behaving I have no idea how you define it," Sherlock replied with a smirk.

"The poor soul was a _fan _of yours, little brother, and you've ruined his engagement," the elder Holmes pointed out.

"He's brought her – among other friends – along to meet me and _asked_ to be deduced. Am I guilty because his behaviour had been censurable? Because he stupidly chose her company during that? Because she didn't like what I found out?" my friend queried, ice in his voice.

"Of course the boy is an idiot, like you imply. He wanted to meet you after doctor Watson's tales made quite obvious that your disposition is abysmal. But he still didn't deserve the retaliation he got. We both know that you could have deduced something perfectly harmless."

"If I wanted to become a showman I would have, Mycroft. Royal family or not, I'm not about to perform 'a trick' for bored youngsters", Sherlock spit out.

"A trick?" his brother echoed, half taken aback and half outraged, and all around showing more emotions than I'd ever seen him.

"Not my definition, of course. One would think that fans would know how to flatter the people they admire," the younger Holmes revealed.

"Since you haven't framed him for murder yet, I'll explain to Victoria that you showed considerable restraint."


	31. Countdown

_A.N. So sad to see this end! Today's prompt is from me!: Countdown._

_It's shamefully short, but I couldn't find a plot that satisfied me, so this is it. I guess that's what they mean when they say 'go out with a whimper'. Happy new year to everyone! _

"...With five volumes you could just fill that gap on that second shelf. It looks untidy, does it not, sir?"

My Watson dutifully turns to look at said bookshelf. Now, 3...Place the useless books on the table 2...Get rid of the wig 1...Blissfully stretch myself . Aand... Silence. Speechless Watson? Really? _Thud._ Wait, what?


End file.
